


wordless

by orphan_account



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Comfort Sex, Established Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:34:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21609169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "I just…" Stan struggles to find the words, shoulders tense and brows furrowed. He makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat, and his shoulders sag as if in defeat. "I've been havin' a bad day, honey. That's all. Don't go worryin' over me."-Stan has a rough day. You comfort him.
Relationships: Stan Pines/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 142





	wordless

The sun is setting on the shack by the time the final tour bus leaves. You're closing up, reorganizing shelves in a white tee and jeans, cheeks rosy with the late summer heat. There's some silly pop song stuck in your head and you're humming it under your breath, though you stop when you hear Stan emerging from the museum area. His ribbon tie is undone, hanging from his collar. You brighten at the sight of him, making a beeline to plant a kiss on his cheek. He gives you a tired smile, miles away from his usual dumb, sunny grin.

"You okay?" you ask, brows furrowed, immediately worried.

"Yeah, course I am!" he says, though you can tell he's faking the enthusiasm. "Why, you sayin' I look _bad_ or somethin'?"

You laugh, though it's half-hearted. "Naw, Stan. You could never, not to me. C'mon, let's go inside." You lace your fingers in Stan's, his big hands dwarfing yours. He lets you tug him inside, though he begs off dinner, claiming to be tired. You don't doubt it.

You eat alone, finishing up quickly, still worried. 

Depositing the dish in the sink for later, you knock gently on the door before pushing it open. At this point Stan's bedroom is sort of a shared bedroom, but he's been all out of sorts. When you enter, Stan hasn't heard you, standing with his suit jacket in hand and staring at some corner of the wall.

"Stan?" you say softly, startling him out of his rêverie. He jumps, before sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck, blushing.

"Didn't, uh, hear you come in," he says gruffly. You sit down on the edge of the bed, looking up at his curiously.

"What?" he asks. "Do I got somethin' on my face?"

"Nothin' but a whole lot of handsome," you reply, joking. Then, more seriously: "What's wrong, Stan?"

He frowns deeply, and you stay quiet, waiting for him to speak. You know he doesn't like to admit that he's got human weaknesses or talk about his feelings.

"I just…" Stan struggles to find the words, shoulders tense and brows furrowed. He makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat, and his shoulders sag as if in defeat. "I've been havin' a bad day, honey. That's all. Don't go worryin' over me."

You know he hates to be pitied, hates sympathetic, simpering smiles and empty words, so you just silently open your arms, quirking a brow. Stan stares. You stare back, making grabby hands, and he finally laughs a little and lets you wrap him up in a comfortingly warm embrace, the faint remnants of your familiar perfume filling his senses. He lets out a breath you think he didn't even know he was holding. Your hands stroke his thick grey hair, fingernails scratching pleasantly against his scalp until the tension drains out of his broad shoulders, until his eyes flutter closed, until he hums in contentment, beyond pleased to just be snuggled up to you and showered in affection.

You fall back onto the bed, pulling him down with you. Stan's head is pillowed on your breast, but it isn't long before he pushes himself up over you, pressing kisses into the soft curve of your jaw. You know exactly what he's gunning for, but you don't mind giving into him. You cradle his face in your hands, bringing him up to kiss him, open-mouthed. Simultaneously, you shift your leg to push against where he's hardening, giving him a touch of friction, and it doesn't take more than a moment before he's hard and grinding up against you. He groans. You feel in rumbling deep within his chest, reverberating.

Undressing takes a while. Neither of you are in too much of a hurry, luxuriating in the build up rather than hurtling towards a quick, cursory getting-off. His hands are warm and large, sliding up the inside of your t-shirt and then helping you pull it up and off. Your hands slide up his torso, mapping his pecs, his biceps, the curves of both his muscle and fat before undoing his buttons and pushing the shirt off his broad, broad shoulders. You squeeze one of his big arms appreciatively. You know Stan's self conscious about his body, so you like to appreciate him when you can, showing him how much you like him. He's panting at this point, rutting against your thigh like he just can't help himself. You take pity and reach a hand down, squeezing at his hot length through the layers of his pants, feeling him buck up desperately into your hand. He groans, eyes squeezing shut. This continues for a few minutes, just his mouth on yours and your hand rubbing insistently through the fabric.

"Doll," he says, finally, breathing ragged. "You're killin' me." You grin into his lips.

"Sorry, Stan. I can't help it. You just look so good like this." Still, you figure it's time to move things along and shed your jeans, kicking them off the side of the bed somewhere. You undo his fly next, pulling the band of his boxers down just enough for his erection to spring free, hot and red with how desperate he is. There's a strange satisfaction in knowing how hard you make him, taking him in hand and feeling him leak steadily into your grip, slicking it. He pushes up into your fist, too far gone to kiss with any skill. Instead, he mouths at your neck, your jaw, anywhere skin is exposed. 

Stan's getting more and more desperate and so are you, so you might as well get this show on the road. Your ruffled white panties come off, kicked in the same direction your jeans. You're practically dripping, slick gathered between your folds and some even sliding down the soft skin of your thighs. You guide him to your entrance. Stan takes over then, pushing all the way in, your body fluttering and seizing around him, trying to accommodate his size. He makes these punched-out sounds, the hot, slick tightness around him threatening to pull his climax from him way too soon. You kiss him, signalling that you're ready, that he can _move._

That's all the encouragement he needs, and he slides home, fucking into your searing, tight heat, fast and sloppy. Stan's blindly seeking his own pleasure, fucking like he _needs_ it, desperate and almost boyish. You like it this way, too, to be honest, and shift your thighs further apart. Eventually a big hand comes down to rub rough circles against your clit, making your legs quiver where they've parted for his body. It takes a few scant minutes before you can feel the liquid heat of your climax approaching, pressure building in your stomach, and your eyes flutter closed. Only a few moments more and you're tipping over that precipice, the seize and pulse of your inner walls enough to pull him over _his_ , and he spends inside you with a groan, hips flush with yours and still grinding.

He collapses on you, and honestly, you kind of welcome the weight. It's comforting. Eventually, though, you tug at his arm until he shimmies up so you can cuddle with him, legs tangled with his. You're smiling dopily at him with lidded eyes, and his returning grin is just as silly. 

"Hey," you say, sweet with sleepiness.

"Hey," he replies in that gravelly voice, indulging you.

You intertwine your fingers in his. "I love you."

You know he doesn't like to talk about his feelings. It's not a surprise when he blushes down to his chest and doesn't reply, but there's something soft in his smile now. And when he pulls you closer, there isn't really any reason to doubt that he loves you, too.


End file.
